


The Coffee Shop AU

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Series: Sweet like Blood, Sugar [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Coping, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-07 11:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15907308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: Working for Babet is not so much a job as it is a vocation. It’s like that for everyone, no less so for Claquesous. Working for Babet means working hard and being bossed around, but it also means being part of her people.Which is probably why, when he showed up again after ten months of unexplained absence, looking like death and with Fauntleroy in tow, he still had a job waiting for him and she didn’t even press for answers.That’s almost a year ago now, but Claquesous is still grateful for it every damn day.This is about the Dutch kind of coffeeshop, the one that specialises in something different than coffee. Was that misdirection the only reason I wrote this? Maybe. But there’s also vampires and friendship and a whole lot of stubbornness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> General content warnings for this work: blood, recreational drug use, mention of past abuse/violence, mention of criminal activity, anxiety.  
> Be warned, this is very angsty around the edges. Also, I guess a warning for eating disorders, even if it’s not exactly of the human kind.

_Amsterdam, 2016_

 

Normally Claquesous has a routine when he comes home, but tonight he leaves it be. He locks the front door behind him and makes his way straight to his bedroom. On the way there his shoes end up in the hallway, his coat on the living room couch and his jeans on his bedroom floor. He doesn’t bother taking off anything else, instead collapsing on his bed half-dressed and utterly indifferent to it. His head has barely hit the matrass before there’s a sound at the door.

Claquesous rolls onto his back and opens his eyes again, over at the familiar figure in the doorway.

“You didn’t come home yesterday.”

Fauntleroy looks thin in their oversized hoodie, more like a child than a teenager. The bright rainbow colours of the hood make their pale brown skin seem almost greyish in the dim light.

“I’m aware,” Claquesous says wearily. His head aches, desperate for sleep. “I was working.”

Fauntleroy doesn’t take a step across the threshold, but their eyes are fixed on him intently. “You could have texted.”

There’s an edge to their voice. A sharp, anxious edge. The tiredness in Claquesous’ mind lifts for a moment to let through a jolt of guilt. “I’m sorry, Faunt,” he mutters.

The hard glitter in their eyes softens a bit, but they don’t speak or move.

Silently Claquesous moves sideways on the bed, pulling the bedding on top of him and stretching his arm out invitingly across the now empty half of the bed. He looks up at Fauntleroy.

Without a word they hurry to the bed and crawl in beside him. They hide their face against his shoulder, cold fingers grabbing at his shirt and Claquesous wraps his arm around them, pulling them in closer. Even through their thick hoodie and sweatpants Claquesous can feel their chill draining the heat from his body, but by now that feeling is almost comforting. He pulls the two duvets on top of both of them.

Fauntleroy is still tense. Still a little too urgent in the way they press against him. Claquesous is certain they are squeezing their eyes shut tight. He already apologised. Repeating himself won’t help. It never does. It only makes things worse. It’s not him that needs to say something, it’s Faunt.

“I wish you’d stop fucking waiting up for me,” he grunts, half into the pillow, half into the fabric of Fauntleroy’s hood.

“I wish you’d learn to pick up a damn phone,” they bite back sharply, voice muffled against his shoulder.

“Maybe I should have it glued to my hand like yours,” Claquesous retorts, relieved to hear the snark in their voice.

“ _God_ you’re old,” Fauntleroy sneers.

“I’ll sent you back to school, eternal brat.”

Fauntleroy jabs him in the ribs and Claquesous swears at them. They have nearly relaxed completely against him now, only one of their feet is still fidgeting under the covers. Claquesous gently pushes at their leg with his own foot and they stop, drawing their knees up a little.

For a moment there is nothing but warm silence between them and Claquesous can feel his fatigue start to drag the corners of his mind down.

“You smell like Him again,” Fauntleroy mumbles suddenly.

Claquesous’ eyes open drowsily. “Yeah,” he sighs. “The job was with Gueul.”

Fauntleroy makes a soft, _almost_ neutral noise and then: “Was he the one that fucked it up?”

“ _No_.” That came out rather harsher than Claquesous had meant it. He’s regretfully awake again and Fauntleroy is looking at him with one eye from behind a wisp of their pink hair. “We got a delivery and it was bad quality,” he says. “That’s all.”

Fauntleroy smirks. “So your _supplier_ fucked up.”

Claquesous exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah, and he’s regretting it now.”

“Good,” Fauntleroy says. One corner of their mouth quirks up and Claquesous gives them a vague smile in return.

“And it’s all good. Alright?” he says.

They hum, shifting a bit so they’re not lying on his arm so heavily, but not so much that they have to leave too much space between the two of them. They’re clingy, always have been. Well, ever since the moment they decided to actually trust him at least. Claquesous doesn’t mind. Not with them. He’s…used to it now. Besides, they look out for each other.

Even with his mind muddled with exhaustion Claquesous can see how bad Fauntleroy looks. Haggard and not at all well fed. They’ve probably been drinking nothing but coconut juice again. He knows he should talk to them about that, but… Not now.

“When’s the last time you slept?” he asks.

Even with a half obscured face Fauntleroy manages to look indignant. “When’s the last time _you_ did?” they retort snidely.

“What’d you think I’m in my damn bed for,” Claquesous grunts and he closes his eyes, because Fauntleroy at least sounds like their normal self again and he’s too damn tired to keep his eyes open.

There is a very short silence and then they mutter softly in the darkness: “Can I sleep here?”

Claquesous sighs and reaches over, without opening his eyes, to tug their hood all the way down over their face. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I’ve recently been writing these two as a ship, I wanted to make it clear: that’s not the angle here. (Hence the abbreviated name ‘Faunt’ instead of ‘Faun’, that is how I distinguish the two characterisations.)
> 
> I have to say, releasing this is a bit of a gamble for me, so if you chose to read this, I'd very much like to hear what you thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: animal blood, reference to sex work

At eight in the bloody morning Claquesous is woken up by the alarm going off on his phone. Babet changed his day shift with Kruideniers’ evening one so he can actually sleep in, but he forgot to change his fucking alarm. He reaches out blindly and somewhere in the mess of blankets Fauntleroy groans resentfully. After a couple useless gropes into the dark Claquesous’ phone is suddenly thrust into his face, knocking hard against his nose.

“Fuck you,” he swears, the pain knocking him far more awake than he wants to be.

“Shut it up,” Fauntleroy groans.

Claquesous does, finally, and pushes the phone out of sight and out of mind. He buries his face in his pillow and goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up the second time he actually feels mildly alive, so he fishes his phone up off the floor beside his bed where he dropped it and checks the time. It’s a little past one. His shift doesn’t begin until five but… With a sigh Claquesous drags himself out of bed and turns on the light.

There is no resentful response from Fauntleroy, which is explained when Claquesous sees them lying with the duvet pulled up over their head. They’re lying curled up like a child, but their feet are sticking out of the mess of bedding. Claquesous grabs their ankle and gives a tug on their leg.

Fauntleroy kicks, but Claquesous is used to that, he knows to stand to the side.

“You getting up?” he asks.

“ _No_.”

“Suit yourself.” Claquesous heads to the kitchen, but there’s hardly any food in the house. He’ll need to go shopping. He _hates_ grocery shopping. But before he does anything he needs a damn shower, he’s still in his clothes from last night. He feels like a god-awful mess.

.

A shower and a trip to the supermarket later, Claquesous doesn’t feel as battered anymore. Fauntleroy is up when he returns with the groceries, but that’s about all they are. They are still in their pyjamas, well, the clothes they slept in, and they’re curled up on the couch watching tv.

“Put these away, will you?” Claquesous says, dumping the bag of groceries on the counter in the tiny kitchen. “I’m late for work.”

“Kay.”

Claquesous walks back to the living room. Fauntleroy is still staring at the tv. They look _sickly_. “Faunt,” he says and after a moment’s delay they look up at him.

They meet his eyes. “What.”

He makes sure to keep his expression neutral. Almost neutral. “Have a proper drink, okay?”

Fauntleroy’s face falls, but they don’t look away. “…okay.” The don’t sound happy, but they sound like they mean it. That’s all Claquesous wants.

“Good,” he hums. “Gotta go. See you later.”

“Later,” Fauntleroy says, but they don’t turn back to the tv until after he’s turned around.

He should spend more time at home, Claquesous thinks as he hurries out the door. He’s been working a lot. Going out a bit again too… Too many long days and short nights.

His feet have brought him most of the way there before Claquesous is even aware of it. Having his work at walking distance is an absolute godsend. Maybe not exactly surprising considering Babet fixed the place for him.

It’s a nice apartment too. De Wallen don’t deserve their bad rep, it’s safer here than many other neighbourhoods. If only because everyone keeps a close eye on each other.

For the shop being close to the red light district is a plus because it means tourist traffic. Not that they don’t get enough locals in of course, because they do. Coffeeshop Gaia has a good reputation and a lot of regulars. Claquesous was a customer too, before he became an employee. Not that he’s entirely sure when exactly he stopped just hanging around and actually ended up working there. That seems to be the case for most of his colleagues too. Gueulemer practically lives at the shop (of course he does also actually live in the apartment above, but that still shouldn’t mean he’s literally always there). Claquesous’ shift is always a full eight hours at least, longer if it gets busy or there happens to be trouble. And although Babet makes sure all her people are always well supplied with food and coffee, he has never seen anyone get the required regular breaks.

But that’s just the way things are and no one cares. Working for Babet is not so much a job as it is a vocation. It’s like that for everyone, no less so for Claquesous. Working for Babet means working hard and being bossed around, but it also means being part of her people. It’s a strange thing, having Babet’s trust placed on you, and it’s compelling. Once she’s made up her mind up about someone, it’s fixed.

Which is probably why, when he showed up again after ten months of unexplained absence, looking like death and with Fauntleroy in tow, he still had a job waiting for him and she didn’t even press for answers.

That’s almost a year ago now, but Claquesous is still grateful for it every damn day.

Because ironically, Claquesous quite likes working security. At least he likes it here. He even likes being sent out with Gueulemer to deal with the slightly less above-board side of the business. To be honest, he’d be bored without it. (Officially Gueul is just the cook, but his strength and size have two advantages. Firstly, it’s intimidating. Secondly, it draws attention away from Claquesous, who is actually the bigger threat by virtue of quickness and training.)

None of that appreciation is particularly present in Claquesous mind at the moment though, because he’s still fucking tired.

“Hey Biz,” he grunts to Kruideniers who’s smoking just outside the door because smoking _tobacco_ is still prohibited inside and – more importantly – Babet can’t stand the smell.

Kruideniers hums. “Trouble yesterday I hear.”

“Yes,” Claquesous says, already walking past him.

“Glad I wasn’t by then,” Kruideniers says with a grin.

“You never are, lucky fuck.”

Kruideniers laughs and Claquesous steps inside. It’s quiet. Normal for a weekday afternoon. There’s two guys sitting by the window and a small group of giggly girls in a corner, that’s it.

Predictably, Marion is still behind the bar and Montparnasse is nowhere in sight.

“You look like hell,” she greets him. “Double espresso?”

“ _Graag_ ,” he nods, a little surprised. Marion Weduwe has many admirable qualities, but ‘caring’ is not the first one that springs to mind.

Marion slides off her chair and moves to the coffee machine with ease, clearly she’s having a good day.

“Is Gueul in?” Claquesous asks.

“Course,” she says. “In the kitchen.” She makes a prompting motion with her head and Claquesous moves towards the door to the left while she makes him his coffee. The customers must have been _very_ pleasant today. As he opens the kitchen door he hears Gueulemer’s voice and even before he sees him Claquesous knows he’s on the phone. His friend sounds different when he’s talking to his family. Gueulemer doesn’t see him, he’s leaning heavily against the wall with one hand, the other holding his phone to his ear. His eyes are closed and he looks way more tired than his voice lets on.

“Sí, Mai. Sí, sí. Ami primintí. Sí. …m’ta stimabo. Ayo.”

He lowers his phone and opens his eyes at the same time. When he sees Claquesous he pulls his face into a grimace. “Shit, man.”

“You’re not winning any beauty contests today either,” Claquesous snarks.

Gueulemer groans in agreement and drags a hand across his face. “Babet’s been out all day,” he says unhappily. “Only heard from her once.”

Claquesous doesn’t answer. That probably means she’s having one of her famous arguments with one or more of her business associates. “If she needs us, she’ll tell us,” he shrugs finally.

“Yeah,” Gueulemer says, clearly not at all pleased with this approach. They don’t have a choice though and he knows it.

They both lift their head when there’s a burst of noise from the shop.

“You’re _late_ ,” Marion’s voice drifts above the racket, which means the racket is nothing more than the arrival of Montparnasse.

Montparnasse is the newest addition to the business. He’s is young, cocky, sarcastic and vain. He’s also an extremely good barista, a damn connoisseur when it comes to cannabis products and – for reasons of convenience as well as compatibility – rapidly becoming someone Claquesous genuinely considers his friend.

He and Marion both have very different styles. Marion listens to customers, with vacant smiles and distasteful glances sometimes, but she listens. Montparnasse doesn’t. He reads them, stares them down and tells them what they want instead of taking their order. Somehow, between his good looks and his excellent read of character and taste, he makes it work. People often complain about Montparnasse’s manners, but they never complain about what he ends up serving them.

That is at least partly owed to Gueulemer and Babet of course, because Babet’s drugs are of excellent quality and Gueulemer is a horrendously good cook. Several people from the Antillean community come in just for his pastries, nothing else.

“Fashionably late,” Montparnasse’s smooth voice drawls, causing Gueulemer to turn his eyes upward.

Marion’s reply is indistinguishable, but no doubt scathing and creative, because there is laughter from the customers. Claquesous grins slightly and moves towards the kitchen door. Gueulemer follows him, leaning against the doorframe as Claquesous walks back into the shop.

Montparnasse is leaning on the counter, smirking at Marion and looking the picture of fashion as usual. Claquesous has never questions the way Montparnasse acquires designer clothes, but he suspects he has more than one method and that they all vary greatly on the greyscale spectrum of moral and legal acceptability.

“Oh, it’s you today?” he says as soon as he sees Claquesous and he’s doing a bad job of not sounding pleased.

“Hurtful,” Kruideniers drawls from where he has appeared in the doorway and Montparnasse meets his mockery with utter indifference. “I’m off,” Kruideniers nods at Claquesous. “Nothing to report.”

“Good,” Claquesous nods in return.

Two regulars call out greetings in response to Kruidenier’s goodbye, doing the same (with considerable more charm) for Marion and then settle back down again. It’s a little past five so it’ll be a while before it gets busy. In fact it doesn’t get overly busy at all. At least not with the kind of customers that matter to Claquesous. No one makes trouble, which is good for business, but boring.

Montparnasse looks bored too, but then again he usually does. “If I have to have another argument with a goddamn twenty year old about not selling them more cake, I am shoving someone’s face into the milk steamer,” he snaps after getting rid of yet another group of excitable customers.

Claquesous snorts. “Your twenty-first was how long ago?” he sneers.

Montparnasse’s green eyes flash resentfully. “ _I_ never ate myself sick on bloody space cake.”

“Only because you were too busy watching your figure,” Claquesous says sweetly, effortlessly grabbing the towel that Montparnasse chucks at him out of the air.

When he locks the doors at one am Montparnasse has already started cleaning up and judging how much he’s hurrying, he’s meeting someone after work.

“Quiet night.”

Claquesous turns around to nod his agreement at Gueulemer. His friend looks better now than he did before, he must have slept at some point during the evening.

“Want to come up for a bit?” he asks, glancing at Montparnasse half-heartedly to extend the invitation, but obviously pleased when that is met with a dismissive:

“Got stuff to do.”

“Stuff or someone,” Claquesous snorts.

“That’s entirely up to him, isn’t it?” Montparnasse grins, disappearing from view as he ducks behind the bar.

Gueulemer pulls a face and directs a questioning look at Claquesous again.

Claquesous nods at him before he has really thought about it, but when he’s climbing the stairs behind him he does remember to text Fauntleroy. They don’t text back, but the message arrived. That’s good enough.

Gueulemer’s place is messy. How Claquesous’ used to be before he had Fauntleroy ambling around tidying all the time.

“Heard anything from Babet?” he asks, letting himself fall down on the cough.

“Nope,” Gueulemer grunts. He rummages through the stuff on one of his shelves. “How’s your shoulder?” he asks.

No one got hurt yesterday – none of _them_ did – but Claquesous took a blow to the shoulder that he thought might start acting up. It didn’t.

“Don’t feel it anymore,” he replies. “Can’t have been a proper hit after all.”

“ _Watjes_ ,” Gueulemer snorts and Claquesous grins.

They share a joint that’s been made for taste more than any real effect and go over last night’s mess of a meeting again, slumped against each other on the couch.

“Babet said that if there’s more trouble, she’ll get someone else to deal with it,” Claquesous hums, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.

“Like hell she is,” Gueulemer growls, shoulders tensing.

Claquesous clicks his tongue. “What would your Mai say if you had to do time,” he says, pulling his face into a mockingly moralising expression.

Gueulemer’s dark eyes narrow and he plucks the joint from Claquesous’ lips. “Blame my father,” he sneers, but Claquesous can see it still worked.

He’s known Gueul for years. By now he knows when he can pull this kind of shit and when he should keep his mouth shut. He lets the silence last for a while before asking: “Did she call you this afternoon?”

Gueulemer rubs at his forehead. “…I called her.”

Claquesous leans back until his head is resting against the back of the couch. “Good son,” he hums.

“Fuck off,” Gueulemer grunts, but there’s a badly repressed warmth to his voice that makes Claquesous grin at the ceiling.

“Want something to eat?” Gueulemer asks, extinguishing what little is left of his joint.

“Always,” Claquesous yawns. “But I should get home.”

“…for Faunt,” Gueulemer supplies and Claquesous turns his head to look at him.

“Yeah.”

For a moment it looks like Gueulemer might say something and some unwelcome tension bleeds through the calm in Claquesous’ mind, but then Gueul moves forward and gets to his feet. “Alright,” he groans, stretching his arms above his head, his knuckles nearly touching the ceiling. “Get out of my house then, asshole.”

“Going,” Claquesous smirks. “ _Lul_.”

Gueulemer follows him to the door though, which he usually doesn’t, and just as Claquesous steps into the hallway he says:

“You should bring them sometime.”

Claquesous keeps his gaze fixed on the general direction of the floor while he continues patting his pockets. “Fauntleroy?” he hums in response. As if Gueul could be talking about someone else for fuck’s sake.

“If you want,” Gueulemer says. “Or if they—You know.” He shrugs.

Claquesous curses inwardly and forces himself to meet Gueulemer’s eyes. “Sure, I’ll ask them,” he lies.

Gueulemer’s grin is slow, like it always is when he means it. “Cool.” He wraps one arm firmly around Claquesous’s shoulders for a moment and Claquesous hugs him back quickly.

“See you tomorrow,” he hums.

“In a couple of hours,” Gueulemer corrects him cruelly. “Morning shift.”

“Fuck you,” Claquesous groans and he smiles vaguely as he goes down the stairs, hearing Gueulemer laugh behind him.

The walk back home is quick and it clears his head a little.

That doesn’t help him when he steps through the front door though. As soon as he enters the hallway the smell of blood hits him.

That’s good, it means Fauntleroy is actually eating, but it still makes Claquesous’ stomach churn. He swallows and clenches his teeth for a second. Blood in general doesn’t bother him, it’s the stale, faintly coagulated smell of bottled blood that gets to him. Even now. And it’s also coming home and finding…

Claquesous shoves that image aside as he walks into the living room and he makes an effort to look neutral. Fauntleroy shouldn’t see him get weak over this.

They’re sitting at the table with their laptop and there’s a change in their appearance already. Their skin has a warmer, darker tint, the shadows under their eyes are fading, they look healthier. They also look slightly grotesque, chewing absentmindedly on the straw of their smoothie cup, but Claquesous is used to that.

“What’s the flavour of the month?” he asks when they don’t look up from their screen.

“Pig,” Fauntleroy says, pushing the straw out of their mouth with their tongue. “I wanted cow, but—” They shrug.

Claquesous hums. It’s remarkable what people will turn a blind eye to or just not question when you surround your requests with polite manners and a threatening demeanour. He used to go with Faunt when they went to buy blood, but that hasn’t been necessary in a while.

“How was work?” Fauntleroy asks. They don’t sound particularly interested, but they always get like this while feeding. Sullen, closed-off.

“Fine,” Claquesous replies. He should really eat something, but that damn smell has taken away his appetite. It’s been nearly a _year_. He should be over this by now. Fauntleroy needs to eat, every time they notice him drawing back when they do they’re more likely to start neglecting themself again.

“I made pasta,” Fauntleroy mutters, glancing up for just a second. “It’s in the microwave.”

“Thanks,” Claquesous hums and he disappears to the kitchen with a breath of relief. Heating something up is definitely less effort than, he might manage that.

He eats in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, and when he return to the living room Fauntleroy has shut themself in their room. Claquesous does the same.

They will be better tomorrow, they always are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made Babet a woman in this because of two reasons: firstly because I've always wanted to because Babet is actually a Dutch female first name, and secondly because Mardisoir's OTN convinced me that this is not only possible but that it can actually work out _really_ well.  
>  I had to use Kruideniers "also called Bizarro", because it's literally a Dutch name, meaning "grocer".  
> "Marion Weduwe" is La Veuve, of course. Weduwe means Widow.
> 
> ~Amsterdam culture 101 with Freckle~
> 
> “De Wallen” are the name for Amsterdam's "red light district". Most of the people who work there are "independent professionals" and that's all completely legal.   
> Coffeeshops are technically legal, but the sale of soft drugs is only "tolerated" by the law. The large scale growing and shipping of it is still properly illegal and will be investigated and prosecuted. It's a weird system, but we're used to it.  
> Smoking is banned in all public establishments in the Netherlands, which means smoking normal cigarettes is illegal inside a coffeeshop (unless they have a special smoker’s room), while smoking a joint or hookah is not :P
> 
> Translations:  
> "Graag" = short for "Yes please"  
> “Sí, Mai. Sí, sí. Ami primintí. Sí. …m’ta stimabo. Ayo.” = Papiamento (the language spoken in the Dutch Antilles) meaning: "Yes, mum. Yes, yes. I promise. Yes. Love you. Bye."  
> "Watjes" = "Wimps"  
> "Lul" = "Dick" (both the body part and the description of the amicability of someone’s character)
> 
> This is terribly self-indulgent, thank you so much for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: reference to past violence/abuse.

When Claquesous leaves for work the next morning Fauntleroy is still asleep, but when he return at the end of the afternoon, the house is _bursting_ with music.

“Oi!” Claquesous yells. “Break the couch why don’t you.” But he’s too damn happy to see Fauntleroy looking full of life and energy to really mind their dancing and bouncing on the furniture.

“You’re home!” Fauntleroy cheers and they jump at him, giving him a second to make sure he actually catches them.

“You’re looking better,” Claquesous grins, wrestling them over his shoulder and carrying them a few steps before plopping them into an old arm chair.

“No jobs with Gueul, today?” Fauntleroy asks innocently, letting the approving comment pass by them.

“No,” Claquesous says, giving an almost-sharp tug on one of their curls. They are properly glossy again. “Not for a while probably.”

“I don’t mind, you know,” Fauntleroy says, catching his hand and trying to pull him down into the chair with them. “Not now you’ve remembered you have a phone.”

Claquesous rolls his eyes and leans heavily on one of the arm rests, trying to flick Fauntleroy against their ear with his free hand. “Babet doesn’t want us involved any further,” he says.

“Could just be hanging out, like you did yesterday,” Fauntleroy points out, ducking their head to evade his fingers. He lets go of them and they lean back in the chair, looking up at him. “You ever hang out with Montparnasse like that?”

Claquesous shakes his head. Montparnasse is more fond of going out than staying in.

“Was he there today?” they ask.

“No, he usually works evenings,” Claquesous says, sitting down on the armrest in a compromise that will hopefully make Fauntleroy stop pulling on him. “He had a tiff with Babet a few days back because he was doing his make-up at the counter again,” he says, since Fauntleroy is obviously angling for a story. “She told him to knock it off and he claimed it was for the benefit of the business. Spent all day flirting obnoxiously with the customers to prove it.”

Fauntleroy grins, baring their fangs in a way that shouldn’t look that cheerful. “And did he?”

“Prove his point? Considering the sales, I’d say so,” Claquesous snorts.

Fauntleroy looks pleased. “Montparnasse always sounds fun,” they say.

Claquesous hums. Montparnasse _is_ fun. Vain, bitchy and stubborn, but fun. “I’m going to make some dinner,” he sighs, getting back to his feet.

“Can we watch a movie?” Fauntleroy asks. They get up as well and trail after him, following him to the kitchen.

“Sure,” he says, checking the fridge for ingredients. It’s mercifully free of containers with blood. “What you in the mood for?”

“Something happy and violent,” they say.

“What else is new,” Claquesous grins. “Go put something on then.”

Fauntleroy flashes him a grin and darts back into the living room. When Claquesous returns with a plate of ajam opor, rice and atjar, the first Kill Bill is waiting on the tv. Fauntleroy has a particular preference for gratuitous violence set to a solid soundtrack and Claquesous has no objections to that.

He sits down, balancing his plate on his knees and throwing one arm up on the back of the couch so Fauntleroy can come sit against him if they want. They lean against him immediately, drawing their feet up under them.

“No fair,” they sigh, when he takes the first bite of his food. They feel around for the remote. “It smells so _good_.”

Claquesous hums sympathetically, but he knows there’s nothing he can say. Fauntleroy misses real food and they hate drinking blood, but the first makes them sick and they need the second to survive. It’s a bitch, but there’s nothing they can do to change it. In any case, as soon as the intro is past, the first notes of “Bang, bang” are enough to cheer Faunt up.

“Babet texted me this morning,” Fauntleroy says after a while, rather suddenly.

Claquesous skewers the last piece of chicken with his fork. “Oh?”

“If we want to come for dinner some time.”

“Hm.” That’s slightly suspicious.

Fauntleroy looks away from the screen for a moment to pull a face at him. “Is she checking up on you or me?”

“Both, probably,” he says. “What’d you say?”

“I said maybe.”

Claquesous glances at them. “Do you feel like seeing her?” Fauntleroy is alone a lot. They have a lot of friends online, but actually hanging out with people is…difficult. They have him. They say that a lot and it’s true, but—

“Babet’s cooking is usually worth putting up with her nagging,” he says

Fauntleroy gives him an amused smirk and Claquesous makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. “You know what I _mean_ ,” he grunts.

Fauntleroy snorts. “Yeah, nice,” they snark. They smile a little. “But sure,” they shrug. “I’d like seeing her again.”

Claquesous nods. “Tell her we’ll come then,” he says, still halfway swallowing his food.

They nod, grinning gleefully at a particularly violent piece of carnage on the screen. “Will there be other people there?” they ask suddenly.

Claquesous is glad he’s got his mouth full of food again because it stops him from answering directly. What he’s thinking is that there better not be and knowing Babet, there won’t be. What he says is:

“If she didn’t mention anyone, probably not.”

Fauntleroy makes a vague noise, seemingly focussed on the movie again. They do look so much more comfortable now they’ve fed. Claquesous wants to say something about not leaving it so long this time, but he doesn’t want to bring the mood down. Instead he finishes his plate and puts it aside, allowing Fauntleroy to sprawl out on the couch with their legs across his lap.

“If I could drink,” they say. “We should do a game where we take a shot every time someone loses a limb.”

“If you could drink you’d be a fucking lightweight and I wouldn’t play drinking games with you,” Claquesous snorts.

“You’re no fun,” they complain with a sigh.

“Nope,” he grins and he squeezes a ticklish spot on one of their ankles, making them squawk and squirm trying to pull free.

Claquesous lets them go before they kick too hard and laughs at their scowling smile. He could do with more nights like these.

Between the movie and Fauntleroy happily curled up beside him, quoting the dialogue before it’s even being said, Claquesous is so agreeably lost to the rest of the world that he physically jumps when the phone rings.

Fauntleroy looks up wildly, eyes wide. “Don’t answer it,” they hiss.

Claquesous reaches for the remote to turn of the movie.

“No…” they groan. “Sous, it’s the middle of the night, it’s going to be Myriel, you know it is.”

Well no shit, he’s the only one that calls on the stupid landline, ever. “Of course it’s bloody Myriel,” he grunts. “And if we don’t answer he’s might actually _visit_."

“But I don’t want to talk to him...” Fauntleroy whines, dragging him back onto the couch with all their weight when he tries to get up.

Claquesous wrestles them off him. “Suck it up.”

Fauntleroy makes a deeply childish noise and lets themself go limp. Claquesous rolls his eyes and walks to the phone. It’s not like a chat with Charles Myriel is on the top of his list of favourite things to do. When they fled Rotterdam he had told Faunt they’d never have to deal with another bloodsucker ever again. But Myriel found them. And, well, Claquesous doesn’t like to think about what might have happened if he hadn’t. Someone _else_ might have found them, for a start. Myriel is a pain in the ass, but they owe him.

“Hallo Myriel,” he says, putting the receiver to his ear.

“Am I that predictable?” the incorrigibly kind voice on the other end chuckles. “Good evening, Claquesous, how are you?”

“Fine,” Claquesous replies and he winces slightly at how much his voice sounds like the tone he uses on his mother, the once in a blue moon they actually speak. “Same old.”

“And how is Fauntleroy doing?”

Claquesous glances towards the couch. A frizz of pink hair and two scowling brown eyes are just visible behind the back of it. Claquesous gives a commanding movement with his head and they stubbornly shake theirs in reply.

“They’re fine too,” Claquesous replies, glaring at Fauntleroy. “Here, they’ll tell you themself.” That last sentence he drives home with emphasis, while Fauntleroy shakes their head at him even more violently.

“Here they come now,” he say pleasantly, making his voice clash with his glare as he marches over to the couch.

“I’ll wait,” Myriel says at the other end of the line and Claquesous can’t even pretend not to hear the amusement in his voice. He shoves the phone in Fauntleroy’s direction and they take it with a degree of suffering reluctance that people usually reserve for having their teeth pulled.

They go partially limp again, draping themselves across the back of the couch and putting the phone to their ear. “Hi…”

As Myriel bravely starts the conversation, Claquesous takes the opportunity to bring his empty plate to the kitchen. Not because he wants it gone so much, but because watching Fauntleroy sulk and squirm through a handful of replies is damn near painful. Myriel the only vampire they know though. The only vampire either of them _want_ to know. And that’s a very loose definition of the word ‘want’. Still, Claquesous can never quite shake the feeling that he needs to make sure Fauntleroy does keep in contact with Myriel. As if they need to be reminded that even bloodsuckers can be, well, good. Because Myriel is undeniably good. Annoying, persistent and a _nuisance_ , but good. He helped them. He never blamed either of them for what happened. He tried to somehow make up for it. Claquesous sneers even at the thought of that. But…even though he’d never deny Faunt the right to hate what happened to them, they can’t by rights hate all vampires without hating a part of themself. And they deserve better than that.

Right now their disdain is safely fixed on other objects though.

“Yes, I know,” he hears them say testily when he returns from the kitchen. “I _know_.”

They glare at him from where they are still hanging over the back of the couch as if he is personally responsible for the elderly undead do-gooder currently trying to give them life advice.

“Yeah I know that too,” they say in exasperation.

Claquesous pretends to study the frozen image on the tv screen. From the corner of his eye he can see Fauntleroy’s expression change a little. When they next speak, their voice is more like a mutter than a sneer.

“…ja, okay.”

Claquesous glances at them, but they avoid his eyes on purpose and force out a half-decent goodbye before disconnecting the call with a grunt of relief.

“He won’t shut up about the stupid club,” they groan, dropping the phone unceremoniously on the floor.

Claquesous sits back down on the couch, giving them an insincere pat on the back as he does so.

“I swear to god they sounds like fucking bloodsucker boy scouts,” Fauntleroy gags.

In the interest of not getting kicked in the side of the head, Claquesous keeps his mouth shut.

Fauntleroy lets themselves slide down and turns back towards the tv with a disgruntled frown. “Just like that old corpse to ruin a good movie night.”

“Well,” Claquesous says, raising the remote. “At least he’ll be satisfied for the time being.” He turns the movie back on, trying not to let the image of genuine vampire scouting group run too wild in his imagination. Fucking unnerving.

Luckily the movie is distracting enough and it also has the pleasant side effect that by the time Gogo Yubari appears on screen Fauntleroy’s good mood has returned.

“You’re really bloody obvious in your crushes, you know that,” Claquesous drawls, propping his feet up on a chair.

“Up yours,” Fauntleroy snarks and they absolutely beam at the screen as the blood starts spraying again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dish Claquesous is eating is Indonesian, a lazy version of something his grandparents used to feed him with. (Ajam opur is a specific dish, but I’m pretty sure the direct translation would just be “chicken in creamy sauce with lots of spices”.)
> 
> Guys, the handful of you reading this, I love you for it <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: blood, knives, minor injury

At the end of the following week two of Babet’s associates stop by. Presumably to apologise, because they leave looking resentful but relieved. Claquesous is glad of it, because it means Babet’s in a better mood and Gueulemer is less tense.

He’s working the evening again today. Babet doesn’t care who works when as long as they work, so Kruideniers is usually the one in charge of the schedule, because Claquesous doesn’t care too much what shift he takes. The day shift allows him to keep a closer eye on Faunt, the evening shift is more interesting. It also involves Montparnasse, which is a much a pro as a con and he’s keeping that delicate balance up once again tonight.

“If I give you the money,” he says languidly, lounging behind the counter. “Will you go get yourself  a haircut?”

Claquesous doesn’t even bother to look at him. “If I give you the money, will you go get yourself laid so you can stop being such a bitch?”

“Language,” Babet admonishes, striding past on her way to the back office, one of her heels making an angry click when she turns slightly to glare at them.

The door opens in a burst of noise and Claquesous walks over to greet – and pointedly make aware of his presence – the new arrivals. Montparnasse already looks disapproving, he can’t stand tourists.

These particular idiots are a rowdy, overly friendly bunch. They’re bothering the other customers and Claquesous is walking over to tell them off for the second time when the door opens again and he sees a familiar flash of colour at the edge of his vision. He turns abruptly towards the door.

Fauntleroy is standing in the doorway.

Claquesous stares. “Faunt?” He looks them up and down hurriedly, but they look fine and they’re smiling, so it must be—

“Wait, _Faunt_?”

Montparnasse is actually hurrying to come out from behind his counter and Claquesous could kick himself. He should have kept his damn mouth shut and immediately gotten them back out of the door again. But it’s too late for that now, Fauntleroy is eagerly glancing past him and Montparnasse looks bloody _delighted_.

“Well, well, well,” he grins. “Sous’ biggest weakness, in the flesh.” He gives Fauntleroy an appraising look and then looks round to smirk at Claquesous. “Last time I asked about them you nearly bit my head off and now here they are!”

One corner of Fauntleroy’s mouth is quirked up in a smirk and Claquesous can _just_ see a flash of teeth above their lip. The muscles in his shoulders cramp.

Montparnasse leans towards them a little, a far too subtle smile on his handsome face. “I’m Montparnasse.”

“I guessed,” Fauntleroy starts and Montparnasse looks even more pleased with that, so Claquesous takes the opportunity to grab Fauntleroy by their shoulder and drag them to the back of the shop.

“ _Excuse_ us,” he grits, turning his back on Montparnasse, not letting go of Fauntleroy until he has them backed up against the wall. They’re visibly bracing themself and the guilt Claquesous feels in response to that ticks him off even more.

“Fauntleroy, what the fuck are you doing here,” he hisses.

“It’s a free country isn’t it,” they snap, bristling at the use of their full name.

Claquesous glares at them and their brown eyes flicker with hurt.

“I just wanted to see…”

Claquesous pushes his hair out of his face tensely. He knows Fauntleroy is too much on their own. And of course they want to meet his friends. They _should_ meet his friends. He _knows_ this. But… He closes his eyes. He didn’t want to deal with this yes. He doesn’t know how.

“Montparnasse is kind of an ass,” Fauntleroy says.

Claquesous opens his eyes. They’re looking at him with a cautious look that’s barely veiled by the slightly sneering expression that comes with their words. “You got that right,” he sighs.

“He’s pretty though,” they hum.

“Right again.” Claquesous takes a deep breath and straightens up. If he has to deal with this now, he better do it right. “ _Don’t_ show up unannounced while I’m working, you little shit,” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly but keeping his tone light.

Fauntleroy grins, teeth glinting and their eyes relieved at the absence of anger. “Okay, sorry.”

“But since you’re here,” Claquesous says, giving them a sideways look. “Come and meet Gueul.” He turns back for a second before pulling them towards the kitchen. “But close your mouth,” he hisses and Fauntleroy shuts their mouth with a slight roll of their eyes.

“I know how to pass, Sous,” they grunt.

Claquesous doesn’t answer. Of course they do, but these are not strangers, these are his people.

“Is Babet here too?” Fauntleroy asks curiously as they follow him.

“Yes, but let’s not bother her now,” Claquesous mutters. He’s not at all sure Babet will agree with all this and he’s made up his own mind now, so he doesn’t exactly want her opinion.

“Gueul, you busy?” he asks, opening the kitchen door.

“Depends what you want,” Gueulemer says, turning round. “If— oh shit.” He looks genuinely shocked when he spots Fauntleroy, but it takes him all of a split second to start grinning wide enough to light up his whole face.

“So you _do_ tell _him_ about me?” Fauntleroy smirks, glancing up at Claquesous.

“Yes, I told him to beware of a brat with pink hair,” Claquesous snarks.

Gueulemer chuckles. “Oh he talks about you,” he grins. “Under duress.” He walks up to them with a smirk that Claquesous’ can see the genuine joy in as their eyes meet and he holds out a large hand. “Gueulemer,” he says.

Fauntleroy shakes his hand with as wide a smile as they can offer with their lips still dutifully closed. “Fauntleroy, but Faunt is fine.”

“Yeah, call me Gueul,” he nods. He grimaces when they let go of his hand. “It’s cold out tonight, isn’t it. You want something to warm you up?”

“No thank you,” Fauntleroy says politely. “I don’t mind the cold, really.”

“Something to eat then,” Gueulemer insists and Claquesous can’t help but grin. Because even though this is really inconvenient right now, Gueulemer’s insistence to personally feed everyone he has decided to care about is one of his biggest tells.

“I just had dinner,” Fauntleroy laughs. “Thanks though. Sous told me you’re like, the best cook.” They glance around the kitchen curiously and Gueulemer grins.

“Go on, nose around,” he invites and he returns to the counter where he was cutting dates. “Special privileges, this,” he adds meaningfully. “I don’t let just anyone in my kitchen.”

“Oh, should I feel honoured?” Fauntleroy quips, peeking into the various bowls and very convincingly pretending to steal a lick of ingredients here and there. Claquesous is watching them with a variety of extremely conflicting feelings at war in his chest. They are so out of place here, but they look so at ease. He hasn’t moved from his spot by the door and he feels an observer to something he didn’t mean to instigate.

“Very,” Gueulemer says decidedly, flashing Fauntleroy his knife as well as his teeth as he grins.

“What are you making?” they ask, darting closer.

“Fig cake,” he replies, nodding at the pile of figs. “For tomorrow.”

“Can I help?” Fauntleroy asks and they pick up one of the knifes and spinning it once before gripping it firmly.

“Okay, first of all, never touch a chef’s knives,” Gueulemer admonishes sternly. He lets his face relax into a lopsided grin. “But that was pretty good. Might have known, you living with Sous and all.”

“I didn’t teach them anything,” Claquesous says, leaning against the doorpost and still unwilling to move. “I found them like this.”

“Hm, certainly didn’t teach them to chop ingredients properly,” Gueulemer says with pleasant judgement. “Don’t tilt your knife like that.”

Fauntleroy glances back at Claquesous and he gives them a smile. They hastily look back at the cutting board, a smile pushing at the corners of their mouth, and do as Gueulemer said. “Like this?”

“Better,” he nods.

Claquesous is prepared for the amused glance in his direction and answer with a provoking upwards nod.

“You’re certainly more useful than Sous,” his friend grins.

“I usually am,” Fauntleroy says smugly.

“How bad a roommate is he?” Gueulemer asks, dropping his voice to a stage whisper and Fauntleroy makes an amused sound.

“I can leave,” Claquesous offers flatly. “Leave you to gossip about me in peace.” Despite the nervous pressing on his chest he can’t help but acknowledge how good this feels. There’s a strange sort of rightness about this and that feeling gets stronger every time he sees a flash of how damn pleased Fauntleroy and Gueulemer look.

“Well,” Gueulemer quips. “If it’s all the same to— _Godver_.” Gueulemer swears and there’s a sharp clang as he lets the knife fall to the counter.

A second later Claquesous smells the blood.

And so does Fauntleroy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops~
> 
>  
> 
> Translations:
> 
> “Godver” is an abbreviation of “godverdomme”, which is our “goddammit”.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: anxiety, mention of past abuse and violence (loss of freedom, injury, murder).

It took Babet about as long to get to the kitchen as it took Claquesous to drag Fauntleroy away from Gueulemer.

To be fair, they didn’t actually attack him, but they still went straight for the blood on his hand and that was certainly enough to freak him the fuck out.

Which is why Babet is giving him a Talk now and why Claquesous – still holding on to Fauntleroy, one arm wrapped firmly across their chest – _really_ wishes he wasn’t here.

“So in short, yes,” Babet says calmly. “Fauntleroy is a vampire.” She glances at them and adds pointedly: “But a very weak one.”

Fauntleroy snarls at the word and directs their gaze back towards the floor, making themself  small against Claquesous’ larger frame. They feel like a ball of regret and anger.

“Weak?” Gueulemer repeats hoarsely. He has hardly said two words since Babet ordered him to stop yelling and to sit down.

“Yes,” Babet confirms matter-of-factly. “Don’t ask me how it works, but there seems to be some sort blood hierarchy among vampires. Some of them are much more dangerous, Faunt here is apparently what they call a ‘weakblood’. Hardly stronger than a human. They’re not as very badly affected by sunlight either and, remarkably, they’re capable of holding down water and coconut juice. Any tolerably strong vampire would get sick immediately.”

“They drink animal blood,” Claquesous interjects. Babet knows a lot more about vampires than Claquesous is comfortable with, that became apparent when they started sharing the information Myriel had given them with her. They have never asked her why or how she knows all this, but Claquesous is certain he’s heard her talk about ‘nocturnal customers’ with Mamselle and Magnon. Her information is clinical though and Gueulemer looks every bit as freaked out now as he did when Fauntleroy grabbed his arm. “They _don’t_ hunt humans,” he says.

“I’m right here you know,” Fauntleroy snips.

“Yes you are,” Babet says, turning on her heels. “So do you have anything to say?”

Fauntleroy bristles and Claquesous squirms inwardly. Fauntleroy didn’t mean to do any of this. And really, they didn’t actually _do_ anything. Of course they might have… If he hadn’t been there. If… He doesn’t want to think about that.

Babet looks at Fauntleroy with calm, penetrant eyes and Gueulemer just sits, silent and with his face an unreadable blank. Claquesous can’t bring himself to even try and meet his eyes.

“I‘m sorry,” Fauntleroy mutters, shoulders sagging under Claquesous’ hand.

“Good,” Babet sniffs. “You should be.” She turns back to Gueulemer. “Now there is no reason to let this go any further,” she says decidedly. “Gueul.” His eyes snap up to her face. “You understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sounds robotic.

“Good,” she repeats. “No one else needs to know about this.”

“In that case you might have considered locking the door,” Montparnasse’s voice comes from the direction of the doorway. He is standing on the threshold with just enough sarcasm in his eyes to make up for the genuine shock clearly visible behind it.

For a second everyone stares at him and then Babet say, very slowly:

“Parnasse. Did you leave my shop unattended?”

Montparnasse opens his mouth.

“ _Montparnasse_.” Babet’s grey eyes snap fire.

“ _Fine_ ,” he snaps and he turns on his toes, disappearing in a huff. Claquesous vaguely thinks that as far as Montparnasse is concerned what Fauntleroy is probably matters less than the fact that Babet was planning on keeping this from him. Honestly he feels almost numb, no room for further concern.

“ _God_ _betert_ ,” Babet mutters under her breath and after a moment of looking genuinely harassed she turns her eyes on Fauntleroy. “Now,” she says with stern composure. “Fauntleroy and I are going to have a little talk.” She strides to the door and beckons Fauntleroy.

Claquesous doesn’t let go of them and Fauntleroy doesn’t move.

Babet glares at him. “Let them go, Sous.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. He wants to take them home. Now. Where he doesn’t have to deal with the way Gueulemer is staring at the both of them.

“Sous.” Babet’s expression doesn’t soften, but her voice does just a little.

Very reluctantly, Claquesous lets go and Fauntleroy moves away from him with dragging feet. They look back at him dejectedly and he can’t bring himself to smile.

“You stay put,” Babet commands. “Both of you.” And she ushers Fauntleroy out of the door, most likely to her office.

They leave a deafening silence behind. One so thick and choking that it fills the whole kitchen.

Finally, Claquesous looks at Gueulemer. He’s slowly getting to his feet, still with that blank expression on his face. Something twists in Claquesous’ stomach. Gueulemer won’t understand. He won’t. He’ll keep it quiet because Babet told him so, but he won’t understand. This will fuck up everything from this point on and there’s nothing he can—

“Where do they get the coconuts.”

Claquesous blinks. He can’t have heard that right. He stares at Gueulemer in disbelief, but is friend looks back at him looking startlingly normal. “What?” Claquesous asks blankly.

“Babet said they drink coconut juice,” Gueulemer says. “Where do they get them? None of the ones sold here are any good, but I’ve got an address or two that sell ones that aren’t complete garbage.”

Claquesous can feel something shaking in his midriff and he pushed down on it hard. “They— They buy them from the world-market shop,” he says hoarsely. “They’ve never had any other.”

Gueulemer scoffs. “About time that changed then.”

There are no words for this. Claquesous is choking on relief and gratefulness and he can’t find anything to say.

Gueulemer doesn’t seem to want him to say something, but he is starting to look less composed again. There’s tension creeping down his arms from his shoulders and he suddenly mutters: “I need a drink. You want a drink?”

Claquesous shakes his head, but Gueulemer doesn’t reach for alcohol. Instead he mixes something that to Claquesous seems like nothing but condensed milk and coffee extract. Gueulemer takes a draught of it like it’s water and whatever this stuff is supposed to be, apparently it helps. Claquesous comes to lean against the counter beside him and waits, still wondering if there even is anything he can possibly say.

“When you were gone,” Gueulemer begins suddenly. “Did that— Was Faunt—”

Claquesous feels his shoulders cramp up. Babet is the only one that knows what happened to him and he only properly talked to her about it _once_. He’s pretty sure he told Gueulemer bits and pieces… Vague things, heavily censored, and always wrapped in a haze of inebriation. He swallows.

“Faunt didn’t hurt me, if that’s what-”

“No,” Gueulemer interrupts. “I know they wouldn’t. You take care of them, man. They’re like your— I know they wouldn’t.”

Claquesous is too tense now to even be relieved by that. Gueulemer is looking at him with the slight frown he always gets when he’s latched on to something he’s not willing to let go.

“You said there was someone,” Gueulemer blurts out and Claquesous sees the lines of forced restraint in Gueulemer’s jaw. “Some bastard that grabbed you off the street.”

Claquesous’ mouth feels dry. He does _not_ remember telling Gueulemer that. “I’m-”

“You don’t- You don’t want to talk about it, I get that,” Gueulemer grunts, rubbing through his short curls. “But—”

“It was the same fucker that hurt Faunt later,” Claquesous says evenly. _God_ he doesn’t want to let his mind go back there, he really doesn’t.

“Hurt,” Gueulemer repeats, dangerously devoid of emotion, and Claquesous suddenly remembers the way Gueulemer looked when he came back. The way his eyes darted back and forth to take in anything that looked like an injury, old or new. How wary he was to even be near him and how much that fucking hurt.

“Turned them,” Claquesous says. “By accident…I think.” He fights back the memories of Fauntleroy’s frightened eyes as their breath began to catch and the cold shivers took control of their limbs. He blocks it out as hard as he can and looks at Gueulemer instead.

Gueulemer swallows and nods. He’s breathing very slowly. Claquesous can see the question on his face. “What did he do to you?” But he’s not talking about that. Not ever. Instead he slowly reaches out towards the glass in Gueulemer’s hand. His fingers are clenched around it far too tight. Claquesous has seen him crush glasses when he loses his self-control. Gueulemer lets him take it off him and Claquesous places the glass on the counter, staring at it for a while.

“He’s dead,” he breathes. “Faunt killed him.”

Gueulemer doesn’t respond. Claquesous looks up. His friend’s face is a mix of guilt and displaced anger. He already knew.

“Babet told me,” he says. “Nothing about Faunt, but that the guy who got you—” He tilts his head back, breathing out through his nose. “I would have gone to find him if she hadn’t told me.”

Claquesous can’t even allow any of the terror that thought inspires in him to actually come through. He cant.

There’s a short silence during which they both struggle for control.

“What’d you do with him?” Gueulemer asks gruffly.

“Dumped his body in the harbour,” Claquesous replies.

“Harbour?” Gueulemer’s voice is hoarse in a way Claquesous has never heard before.

“Rotterdam.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Claquesous braces his feet against the tile floor and fights the urge to just run. With Gueulemer things are always easy. They’ve known each other for so long, just being near each other is enough to make things comfortable. Claquesous doesn’t know how to deal with the opposite. Beside him Gueulemer seems to be hunching his shoulders more and more and it’s beginning to freak Claquesous out.

“I didn’t know what to fucking _do_ ,” Gueulemer grunts suddenly. “I could tell you were all—” His large hands make a faltering motion. “Didn’t know what the hell happened to you, or where Faunt came from, or why you weren’t trusting me with it. All I wanted to do was tell you I didn’t fucking care as long as you—”

Claquesous’ heart is twisting in his chest at the sound of his voice faltering, but he can think of no way to stop this.

Gueulemer still isn’t looking at him. “I thought you just fucked off. Without a word. Then you came back and—” Gueulemer looks up at him suddenly. “You got grabbed off the _street_. In our own bloody neighbourhood.”

“Lured—” Claquesous says blankly. “Not grabbed.”

Gueulemer makes a sound as if he might be sick and suddenly his fingers are digging into Claquesous’ arms. “I should have—”

“No,” Claquesous interrupts him, grabbing back at Gueulemer’s arms and looking straight up into his face. “Fuck, no, Gueul—”

The look Gueulemer gives him is very nearly broken. “Sous, I would have—”

“I know,” Claquesous swallows. “I would have called for you if I could have, I would have—” It wouldn’t have a made a difference. It probably would have made things worse. But he would have. Gueul is the first and only one he’d have wanted and he should at least know that.

Gueulemer nods mindlessly, holding on to his arms hard enough for it to hurt, but Claquesous doesn’t care. It’s been a year. He should have talked to Gueul sooner.

Eventually, Gueulemer’s breathing evens out and he lets go. “You seemed…fine. After a while,” he mutters.

Claquesous nods. He is. Most days.

Gueulemer visibly searches for words for a moment. “Is Faunt…?”

“Worse,” Claquesous says grimly. “But…better than before.”

“So you literally met them…there?” Gueulemer asks.

Claquesous nods again. He’s not going to say anything about Faunt being the one good thing, because it’s a damn cliché and it doesn’t change a thing. But they have each other now and anyone that tries to take Faunt away from him has another thing coming.

“Shit, man,” Gueulemer sighs. “If you wanted a sibling so badly, you could have borrowed one of mine.”

It’s barely funny, but Claquesous laughs. “From what you’ve said, no thanks.”

“Rude,” Gueulemer hums.

At last some of the tension seems to drain away. Gueulemer takes up his glass again, draining the rest in one go.

“What _is_ that,” Claquesous says, shuddering slightly.

“You seriously going to bitch at me about my taste while you’re living with someone who drinks blood?” Gueulemer says snidely and Claquesous has _never_ been more grateful to hear sarcasm come out of his mouth.

Suddenly the door opens and Montparnasse appears once again. “I closed the shop,” he says.

Claquesous startles and looks at the clock. “Shit—” he grunts. He hadn’t realised it was this late.

“I can keep the peace just fine without you, you know,” Montparnasse sniffs. His demeanour is flippant, but he’s clearly watching them both carefully. “Is Babet still yelling at the child?” he asks.

“They’re nineteen,” Claquesous corrects him. “And Babet isn’t yelling.”

“Child,” Montparnasse repeats indifferently. “And we all know Babet can yell perfectly well without raising her voice.”

Claquesous’ grimace is nearly a perfect mirror of Gueulemer’s.

Montparnasse leans elegantly against the doorpost and Claquesous figures he has had enough time to come to term with the revelation of the night while on duty, because he doesn’t seem particularly moved anymore. He’s merely frowning slightly. And that frown, above all, seems a little dissatisfied to Claquesous. He gives his friend a tired look.

“You think it’s cool, don’t you,” he says wearily.

“Of course I think it’s cool, don’t be an idiot,” Montparnasse snaps. “You’re still a jerk for lying to us.”

Claquesous makes an exasperated noise.

“And here I thought you were just hiding bad housekeeping,” Montparnasse sneers. “Not a vampire roommate.”

“Don’t call them that,” Claquesous says, a little too viciously.

Montparnasse shuts his mouth, but he’s clearly swallowing an indignant “that’s what they are”.

“It’s just…Faunt,” Claquesous says, making an effort to bring his voice down. “And if it’s going to make you stop moping, you can come over some time.” He glances at Gueulemer. “You too, if you want.”

Before either of them can answer Montparnasse looks round and steps inside to let Babet through the door.

“Anything to report?” she asks him pointedly.

“No, ma’am,” Montparnasse chimes. “Very quiet evening shift.”

“Good,” Babet says. She takes a moment to look at Claquesous and then addresses both him and Gueulemer, while looking at the latter. “Fauntleroy is waiting in my office, but they’d like to come back here if you’ll let them.”

Gueulemer straightens up. “Sure thing,” he says and yes, there is just a twinge of uncertainty in his voice, but Claquesous can tell he means it and he’s so grateful.

Babet smiles warmly. “That’s what I was hoping for.” She glances around. “So you boys had a talk?”

The three of them settle for blank stares and stubborn silences and she nods approvingly.

“That’s alright then. I’ll go fetch them.”

Claquesous manages not to grab Fauntleroy as soon as they come through the door and they manage not to hurry straight to his side. Instead he stays put and they glance up at Gueulemer.

“Sorry,” they say. “For…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gueulemer says and the nerves in his voice are gone. Fauntleroy does look impossibly small and harmless standing in front of him. “I have a pretty strict ‘waste not, want not’ policy in my kitchen, but I hadn’t considered that might include my own blood.”

Fauntleroy grins shyly at that and their fangs catch the light for a second. Gueulemer and Montparnasse both stare for a moment, the latter with a bit too much fascination to Claquesous’ taste, but neither of them says anything.

“I just asked the guys if they’d like to come over sometime,” he fills the silence, searching Fauntleroy’s face for sings of disinclination. “See the apartment, hang out—”

“Have dinner?” Fauntleroy smirks.

Claquesous grimaces, but Gueulemer actually laughs and Babet says:

“That sounds like an excellent idea, _including_ me not being invited.”

“Eh, if you wanted to come…” Claquesous begins uncertainly. Montparnasse and Gueulemer look equally unsure. They would probably all die for Babet, but she’s still their boss.

“I would not, darling,” she says decidedly. “Now, I think that is _quite_ enough dramatics on my property for one night.”

…

Claquesous isn’t surprised when Fauntleroy crawls into bed with him again early that morning. He was waiting for them actually. They snuggle against him, clad in thick flannel pyjamas this time, and he tucks their head under his chin, drawing them against his chest.

After a very long time, they mutter softly “I wouldn’t have bitten him.”

“I know,” Claquesous mutters into their hair.

Fauntleroy takes in a determined breath. “But I might have if I hadn’t eaten so recently.”

Claquesous stares up at the ceiling and says nothing. He doesn’t want to think about that.

The hand Fauntleroy had spread out on his chest grabs onto his shirt just a little. “I want to hang out with your friends,” they say, their voice only audible because they are so very close. “So I’ll be better about not going hungry.”

That was not something Claquesous was expecting and he wonders what exactly Fauntleroy and Babet talked about all that time they were shut up in her office. “Sounds good,” he says, a little gruffly, and he reaches up to gently scratch the back of Fauntleroy’s head to make up for it.

They make a soft, affectionate noise and hide their face against his chest. Claquesous combs his fingers though their curls, smiling faintly at the way they stop breathing entirely. If Gueul and Parnasse can really get over this, genuinely get along with Faun… That’s more that he should reasonably be expecting, really. But, even if all that comes out of this is less lies and Fauntleroy no longer neglecting themself it will be worth it. He thinks of what Gueulemer said about siblings. Claquesous has never had any, he never wanted any either. But no one’s ever taking Faunt from him.

“Sous?”

Claquesous blinks out of his thoughts. “Yeah?”

“Thanks for not sending me home…”

There is nothing he can answer to that without having to explain the entire mess of conflicting feelings he’s had ever since going back to work. So instead he tugs softly on a strand of their hair and mutters:

“I’ll tell you one thing. If Gueul’s decided to roll with this he’ll be chill about it. But Parnasse is going to be a fucking nuisance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "God betert" literally means "God makes it better" but is used in the same exasperated/annoyed manner as "Christ's sake".
> 
> If you’re familiar with the other stories in this universe, you had probably already guessed by now that Faunt is a “weakblood”, so the exact opposite of a strongblood like Jehan or Enjolras. Fauntleroy’s turning was accidental. Their sire was keeping them as a ward, but fed them a bit too much blood, only just enough to turn them, but nowhere near enough to give them any of the usual vampire strengths.   
> That is why they can drink coconut juice (and small amounts of water) without getting sick like a normal vampire would. (This actually has precedent in vampire lore, there is a type of vampire from Ghana called the Adze that drinks coconut juice and palm oil as well as blood. I chose the coconut juice because the fluid is sterile and its composition makes it possible to use it in an IV-drip.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, next up is the epilogue and then we've come to the end <3


	6. Chapter 6

 

“Stake to the heart.”

“My heart doesn’t beat to begin with.”

“Garlic.”

“Can’t eat it, doesn’t hurt me.”

“Crucifixes.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well you can’t fly, what kind of a demon even are you.”

“Call me a demon again and I will fucking _show_ you.”

Claquesous watches Fauntleroy and Montparnasse with a weirded-out sort of satisfaction. As expected, Parnasse is being a nuisance. But Fauntleroy is taking it in stride and now they’re getting to know each other through picking apart vampires myths, shared knowledge of slasher movies and a lot of bitching.

There’s a tap on his shoulder and Claquesous automatically holds out his hand. Gueulemer puts a freshly opened beer in it and joins him where he’s leaning against the wall.

“You okay with all this?”

Claquesous glances at him. “Are you kidding?” he says with a breathy laugh. “You shouldn’t be asking _me_ that.”

Gueulemer gives him a lopsided grin. “They’re kind of like a more fidgety version of you, when you were younger,” he says.

“ _Tief op_ ,” Claquesous says, hiding his grin by taking a swig. “You didn’t know me that far back.” In the background Montparnasse is taking pictures of Fauntleroy with his phone, mildly horrified at the fact that they show up as nothing but an either overexposed or badly lit blur on all of them.

His friend chuckles. “I promised to buy them a proper coconut,” he says.

Claquesous takes another swig, hastily swallowing down how stupidly happy that makes him.

Gueulemer makes a thoughtful noise. “I may have also promised to show them how to open it with a machete.”

Claquesous lets his eyes rest on Gueulemer’s grinning face. Gueulemer was built on too large a scale for any of his features to be called subtle, but the amused glitter to his black eyes is always hard to catch. At least it would be for people other than Claquesous. Gueulemer isn’t kidding. Of course he isn’t.

“You teach them how to use a machete and they can come live with you,” he says and Gueulemer’s laugh rumbles loud enough to make both Montparnasse and Fauntleroy look over.

“So nice of you to share,” Montparnasse sneers and he gets to his feet.

“In the kitchen, entitled brat,” Gueulemer grins and Montparnasse walks past him with a dirty look.

Fauntleroy flits past Gueulemer and comes to stand against Claquesous, he puts an arm around them in reflex and pretends not to see the way one corner of Gueulemer’s mouth quirks up at that.

“Gueul says he knows where to get goats blood,” Fauntleroy says, looking up at Claquesous with an expression that carelessly exposes their teeth.

“I thought he was going to slaughter a coconut for you,” Claquesous hums, looking down at them with that same stupid happiness, it’s persistent.

“That too,” Fauntleroy grins. “I’ve never tried goat before!”

Before Claquesous can reply with more than a snort there is a fascinated noises from the kitchen that sounds just a bit too much like Montparnasse rummaging through the fridge.

“Go stop Montparnasse before he spoils your breakfast,” Claquesous winces, giving Fauntleroy a push.

They blow out an indignant breath and dart into the kitchen.

Claquesous watches them go in fascination. “They have never been excited to drink _anything_ ,” he mutters.

“I know how to get people excited about food,” Gueulemer shrugs, but he looks smug.

Claquesous makes an exasperated noise. “I should have brought them to see you immediately.”

“Might have done, yeah,” Gueulemer hums, knocking back the rest of his beer. “Jerk.”

His expression is soft for a second and Claquesous smiles. Montparnasse emerges from the kitchen with a beer, followed by a mildly irritated Fauntleroy, who is blatantly baring their fangs at him, and beside him Gueulemer is as relaxed and easy as he always is.

“Next time you’ll be the first to know,” he hums, raising his beer to his lips.

Gueulemer snorts. “Good.”

Yes. Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Tief op” = “Piss off” (technically you are saying “go away and get typhoid”, we are very fond of swearing with diseases in the Netherlands, but it’s really not meant as harshly as that sounds.)
> 
> ~THE END~
> 
> That was the Patron-Minette installment! I really hope you had fun while I dragged you through vague vampire lore and weird Dutch culture :P
> 
> I think you can probably all guess which ship the next instalment is going to revolve around, but I need a bit of a break.  
> Uni is doing its best to kick my ass and I refuse to let it, so that leaves little time for writing. The next installment will have to be long and I want it done right, so it might be a while. Hopefully it's worth the wait <3
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, you're all wonderful!


	7. Character Line-Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just couldn't resist adding this~

Claquesous was born in Belgium and has Indonesian grandparents on one side. His parents divorced when he was young and he was always closer to his father, but ended up moving to the Netherlands with his mother. He barely keeps in contact with her now, but occasionally checks in with his father. His mother didn’t notice his disappearance, his father did, but was satisfied with some vague excuses and an apology over the phone. He is 24 years old, has mostly lost his Flemish accent except when very drunk, and can understand French, but doesn’t speak it very well.

Fauntleroy grew up in a small village in the north of the country where their penchant for dying their hair interesting colours made them stand out as much as their other non-conforming identity traits. Their looks suggest they’re mixed race, but they have no idea where that might have come from. They’re not close to any of their family and never bothered to find out. They ran away from home several times and once they were eighteen and actually left, their parents begrudgingly gave up trying to make them come back. Once arrived in Amsterdam they ran into the wrong kind of vampire and weren’t able to get away until it was too late. Fauntleroy never met any other blood drinkers and positively hates the very thought of all of them. As far as Fauntleroy is concerned, Claquesous is their only real family now. They were eighteen when they were turned and are nineteen now. Fauntleroy speaks Dutch and English, the latter mostly perfected on social media.

Gueulemer was born and bred in Curacao. As the oldest son, he was sent to the Netherlands by his mother at 18 years old to hopefully keep him out of the kind of trouble he was getting into on the island, mainly the endless fights he had with his father. He doesn’t speak with his father, nor really with his much younger siblings, but he does frequently send presents home to the latter. His mother calls him semi-regularly and even though he lies to her all the time, he also feels bad about it every single time. He’ll be 26 soon. Apart from speaking Dutch and Papiamento fluently, he speaks (American) English very well and because of how close it is to Papiamento, he can understand a fair bit of Spanish.

Montparnasse has a Dutch mother and a French father. He was raised bilingual, but never lived in France. By now he is nearly fluent in English as well, which he speaks with a British accent on purpose. His parents are divorced and he has strained contact with both. Mostly because of past conflicts and clashing personalities, but made even more difficult since he came out as trans. Neither of them knows much about what goes on in his life and he’s happy to keep it that way. He is 21 and has been talking to his GP about wanting to get HRT for a while now, but getting approved for this means therapy sessions and he’s dragging his heels about it.

Babet is the epitome of a Dutch business woman, tall even without her heels, competent, straightforward, and capable of immense politeness and tact if it means a profit. She speaks Dutch, English, French, German and a bit of Polish. She’s fiercely protective of her collection of wayward souls, which includes everyone who works at her shop and even some of her regulars, but particularly the younger ones. She’s in her late thirties, but certainly doesn’t look it. Once upon a time she used to work behind one of the windows on De Wallen, but Kruideniers is the only one old enough to know about it and although she is pretty unapologetic about her past, she’s also rather private.


End file.
